


i'm looking for that kiss only lovers know exist

by bellawritess



Series: when the light hits the room [1]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Could be worse, Friendship, Heartbreak, Hopeful Ending, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, One Night Stands, Post-Break Up, Songfic, this makes it seem really sad, uhhhh not GREAT post breakup coping mechanisms but you know, well this one's not actually too bad compared to the next one, you have to read the whole SERIES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27553303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/pseuds/bellawritess
Summary: do you want to take the risk?Before Michael even opens his eyes, as he’s still hovering on the edge of consciousness, he can feel strong arms around him, and the soaring hope ofAshton?sets him up for a historic crash-landing into reality. It’s not Ashton. Ashton’s arms aren’t quite this lean, and anyway his hair isn’t long enough to brush against Michael’s shoulder blades, the way this guy’s is doing. Michael is sure he knows the name — it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t seem to remember it.
Relationships: Michael Clifford & Harry Styles, Michael Clifford/Ashton Irwin (past), Michael Clifford/Harry Styles
Series: when the light hits the room [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014027
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	i'm looking for that kiss only lovers know exist

**Author's Note:**

> hi !! here's part one of a four-part fic miniseries, i guess. this series is based on jc stewart's new EP when the light hits the room, and each fic is (some more loosely than others) based on a song from it. they go in order, so this one is based on the song rest of my life, where the title comes from :)
> 
> i don't really have a lot to say beyond that tbh! the EP literally came out on november 6 and i listened to it in full a couple times and then immediately set to writing this series. i don't know what came over me lol but anyway. this has been done since basically the 8th, i just. waited to post it for reasons
> 
> big shoutout to series regular [sam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellingatbabylon) for being my, like, personal cheerleader fdkgjfklmj and reading the whole series and telling me what she thought, and also just being like, wow, one of my favorite people on the planet. sam, i am really tired right now so if i sound really sappy that's why, but holy fuck do i love you, you mean the entire world to me
> 
> tw for alcohol

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Michael glances over. It’s a funny thing to ask when he’s still nursing his last one, but the guy asking is very pretty, in a softer way than most of the guys who hit on Michael are. Michael’s drunk, and this guy is good-looking, and Michael has plans for good-looking guys who offer to buy Michael a drink, so he says, “Yeah, alright.”

The guy smiles, green eyes sparkling. “I’m Harry,” he drawls. “I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“Neither did I,” Michael admits, lifting his glass. “Especially since I’m still working on this one, but you know.” He clears his throat. “Handsome guy offers to buy me a drink, I’d be an idiot to say no.”

Harry inclines his head. The lights are too dim to tell if he’s blushing or not, so Michael pretends he’s not. He doesn’t really want to be flirting, but he does have other intentions, and it’s a tricky line to walk. “What’s your name?”

“Michael,” says Michael. He lifts his glass to his lips and drains it in one sip, then sets it down and leans toward Harry. “So, Harry, aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”

A hint of confusion crosses Harry’s face. “What you want?”

“To drink,” Michael says. “Or in general.” He doesn’t waver under Harry’s gaze, but Harry doesn’t either.

“I am,” Harry says, licking his lips. “What do you want, Michael?”

What an awful, awful question, Michael thinks, even though he’d solicited it. He wants so many things. He wants to delete that fucking dating app off his phone, because any time he matches with someone he panics and closes it anyway. He wants to be way more drunk, but also wants never to taste alcohol ever again. He wants to delete Ashton’s number. He wants to stop listening to that last fucking voicemail, even though it wouldn’t make much difference because at this point it’s burned into Michael’s mind, every dip in Ashton’s voice, every inflection, every lilt; like that mind-numbingly atrocious song you can’t seem to avoid on the radio, Michael has trapped himself in his own personal hell, Ashton leaving him every single night like it’s the first one. _Call me back_ , Ashton always begs, and Michael never has.

“Whiskey,” is what Michael says, chewing his lip and tilting his head to look into Harry’s face. “And for you to come home with me.”

Harry smirks. “That can be arranged.”

And Michael knows he’ll regret it, but it’s not like he’s done anything he _doesn’t_ regret lately, so what’s one more?

* * *

Waking up is hell.

It’s always hell, in its own way. Most mornings, it’s Michael waking up being hit anew with the knowledge that he’s alone in his bed again, and sometimes that realization cements around his limbs, pinning him down, crushing his ribs under the weight. That’s hard enough, because even when he manages to shake it off and get out of bed and carry on with his day, it’s always there, pulling him down at every point.

This morning, the hell is in finding that he’s not alone.

Before Michael even opens his eyes, as he’s still hovering on the edge of consciousness, he can feel strong arms around him, and the soaring hope of _Ashton?_ sets him up for a historic crash-landing into reality. It’s not Ashton. Ashton’s arms aren’t quite this lean, and anyway his hair isn’t long enough to brush against Michael’s shoulder blades, the way this guy’s is doing. Michael is sure he knows the name — it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t seem to remember it.

Conveniently, it comes to him — _Harry,_ his name is Harry — just as Harry stirs. He wakes with a quiet hum, and Michael feels him tighten his hold, pressing a kiss to the back of Michael’s neck. If Michael weren’t so numb to anyone and everyone, it would probably feel nice.

“Morning,” Harry rumbles. His morning voice is gravelly. Sexy, Michael thinks. He knows objectively it’s sexy. Even Michael can tell. 

“Morning,” Michael says back, eyes still closed. He doesn’t want to have the awkward morning conversation. Harry’s nice enough, and Michael hopes that will still be true when Michael kicks him out, but it still sucks every time. There’s really nothing about the whole process that isn’t absolutely miserable, so Michael’s not sure what makes him do it, except that there’s a gaping hole where Ashton was, and if Michael doesn’t at least pretend to try and fill it, he’ll go fucking insane.

Harry doesn’t say anything, and Michael wonders if he’s going to fall back asleep. Michael wouldn’t mind. This morning feels like it’s going to beat him into submission, and another couple hours to postpone the inevitable see-you-never chat can’t hurt.

They are not on the same page. Harry moves away, so Michael rolls onto his back to look at him. To anyone else, Harry is a sight for sore eyes; even in the morning, he’s gorgeous, and Michael wishes for a transient moment that he could just throw caution to the wind, forget his whole history, and fall in love with Harry. It would be so easy, and he’s sure Harry would take his hand and follow him down. Life could be so simple.

“Hey,” Harry says softly. Michael reaches up to pull Harry down and kisses him hard. It feels almost right, but that _almost_ might as well be a chasm; it’s _not_ right, and Harry’s mouth is too unfamiliar, and even though it’s a good kiss it couldn’t possibly feel worse. Harry yields to Michael’s lead, sliding one of his legs between Michael’s and pressing his palm into the mattress beside Michael to prop himself up. His other arm curves around Michael’s head, fingers dragging through Michael’s hair, everywhere at once, too much but not enough. Michael wants to drown; if he’s already in this deep, he might as well sink into it completely, but no matter how hard he tries he can’t stop fucking thinking about Ashton.

With a noise of despair, Michael pulls away, and Harry watches him through sleepy eyes. “Good morning to me.”

Michael groans and scrubs a hand over his face, digging the heel of his palm into his eyes until he sees spots even when he blinks them open. Mercifully, Harry moves off of him, leaning on his side against the pillows instead. Michael keeps his eyes closed so he doesn’t have to see the reaction when he says, “You can’t stay, you know.”

There’s a pause. Michael winces. He could have said that nicer. “I figured,” Harry says at length. “I don’t…can I ask why?”

 _No,_ Michael wants to grumble, _you can’t ask,_ but Harry is so nice, and Michael suddenly and violently wishes they hadn’t hooked up. Harry would make a great friend, probably, if Michael hadn’t just slept with him. Regret pools in his stomach, hot and leaden. “Sure,” he says tiredly. “Ask.”

Harry makes a small noise, maybe a laugh. “Okay. Why can’t I stay?”

“Because I’m not looking for a relationship,” Michael says. He sounds insincere even to himself. It’s not exactly a lie, but it’s not the full truth. “I just got out of one. I’m not there yet.”

“Ah,” Harry says. And then: “I’m not really looking for a relationship either, you know. And I’m told that I’m very good company.”

One of those things sounds like a lie. The other sounds suspiciously like an offer, or at the very least a request. “What?”

“I mean,” Harry says slowly, though he seems to say everything slowly, like he’s choosing from a word bank as he speaks, “I’ll leave if you want me to leave. No problem. I promise I’m not one of those, like, clingy hookups. But if you just want a friend, I would be happy to stay. I make excellent pancakes.”

Michael doesn’t move, hardly breathes. That’s a lie, it has to be. Nobody is that nice. No random hookup is that amenable. And Michael shouldn’t agree, anyway, because Harry’s just a guy. He’s a stranger, for all intents and purposes, and even if he’s not a clingy hookup he could be way worse; a serial killer or a Tory or just some other kind of shithead. 

“Why would I want a friend?” he breathes, eyes still intentionally shut.

Harry chuckles. “Well, you just got out of a relationship, and you slept with me, some random bloke who bought you one drink at what is, frankly, a pretty rubbish bar. I’d say you could use a friend. And if you already have a friend, you could always use another.”

Michael swallows. “I don’t want a friend to fuck,” he warns Harry. This conversation probably merits eye contact, so Michael opens his eyes and turns to meet Harry’s gaze. “This won’t happen again, and I’m not just saying that. No offence. I just.”

“I know,” Harry says gently. “I’m not offering to sleep with you again, Michael. I’m offering to make you breakfast and be your friend.”

For some terrible reason, Michael is gripped with the feeling that he’s going to cry. He pushes himself upright and shakes his head to clear it. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious, I swear. Cross my heart.” Harry crosses his pointer finger over his chest, and it’s so juvenile that a laugh bubbles up and pushes itself off Michael’s tongue before he can swallow it down.

“Okay,” he says. “Sure. We can be friends.”

Harry beams. “Brilliant.” He holds a hand out. “I’m Harry. You?”

Michael is smiling. Uncertain and shy, but smiling. “Michael,” he says, shaking Harry’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Harry.”

“Cheers,” Harry says. “May I interest you in some homemade pancakes? Have you got the ingredients for pancakes?”

“I think so,” Michael says. “And if not, I can steal some from my friend’s flat. And yes, you can interest me. I am interested.”

Harry kicks back to covers and leaps out of bed. Somehow he’s full of energy even though they’ve just woken up, and Michael finds himself mirroring a silly grin as Harry gathers up his clothes from the night before and pulls them on before traipsing out of Michael’s room, presumably to go hunt down the ingredients for pancakes. It’s the first morning in a long time that Michael hasn’t felt beside himself with disgust, or regret, or shame, or anguish, and that alone leaves a bad taste in Michael’s mouth, a feeling of betrayal mingling with the stale whiskey on his breath.

But it’s not like he’s in love with Harry, and so this isn’t a betrayal. Fuck Ashton. For one morning — for _one_ fucking morning, just one — Michael can pretend like everything is okay.

He slowly gets out of bed and gets dressed to go join Harry in the kitchen. They’ll probably need to kidnap Calum’s flour, but Michael will enjoy watching Harry search every cabinet first. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3 i'm on tumblr [@clumsyclifford](http://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) feel free to come say hi !! love you bye x


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